


i'm looking for a monophysite priest to marry our maid

by thefudge



Category: Actor RPF, Chris Evans - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Actors, F/M, Hollywood, Hollywood Gothic, Hollywood-typical racism, body issues, geeking about theater, geeking in general, ost: rick james - super freak, ost: the dandy warhols - bohemian like you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27378442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Let’s leave aside the fact that you’re “not his type”. You don’t even live in the same galaxy. And you’re absolutely fine with that. (Chris Evans/Black Reader)
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader, Chris Evans (Actor)/You, Chris Evans (actor)/black reader
Comments: 31
Kudos: 77





	i'm looking for a monophysite priest to marry our maid

**Author's Note:**

> this fic would not exist without this painfully racist ask which demanded that folks stop writing chris evans/black reader fic (even if there's already a dearth of that): https://thefudge.tumblr.com/post/633524032444186624/can-you-stop-fucking-writing-chris-x-black-reader  
> is this a petty!fic? yes and no.  
> is this also a "fuck election anxiety" fic? maybe.  
> this can also be described as a hatchet job, because i wrote it very quickly and on the fly, and it may not sound that good when i reread it in the morning. (beware of typos and such)  
> but fuck it. is this super self-involved and obnoxious (i mean, the title alone???)? yes, but it's 2020. this is the mindframe.  
> as a kind of timeline this story would take place right before Evans' gig in Knives Out? And in this one he hasn't done Broadway yet. Idk, you'll figure it out! Enjoy! (?)

_the goddess Nemesis. that horrid bitch_

_she keeps us poor in love, who could be rich_

-catullus, 50 

***

They wanted someone short and fat. The casting call didn’t phrase it like that – they rarely do – but you’ve learned to read between the lines. Everyone in LA knows exactly what “petite” and “healthy-looking” actually mean.

You weren’t going to audition, initially. You’re happy with theater work. The stage always felt to you more liberating, more welcoming. Even though, every night, you stand in front of people who can see every part of you, who could catalog every imperfection if they cared, they _don’t_ care. They see your body, but they also see more. Theater is for the masses, or that’s how it’s supposed to be. You’re supposed to _lose_ yourself in character. Not just you, the audience too. You can be Medea one evening, cutting your children’s throats, and Paulina Salas the next, holding a knife not to your children’s throats, but to the man you think might have been your Nazi interrogator. It is grim work, it is joyous work. It is work you never tire of.

And sometimes you do feel like an interloper, like you don’t belong here either. But as your first director told you, “Use that shitty feeling. Use all shitty feelings. Use everything you have. That’s theater.” And okay, that may sound obnoxious coming from him, but it did mean the world to you, at one time.

He’s the one who calls you about the audition. He makes you go for it. Says it could be your “big break”.

“Or maybe a small break,” he jokes over the phone. “Either way, it’s worth taking a chance.”

So far, you’ve gotten small, unmentionable parts on TV, playing single mothers and sassy eyewitnesses on crime shows, or sleepy-eyed shoppers and bored receptionists in indie dramas. But this is a respectable, big-budget, classic Hollywood production. You know, the kind they dole out during Oscar season, the type of movie concerned with social issues, where the soundtrack is an actual classical score, and you are encouraged to feel something deep about something _important_. Oscar bait, in other words.

But maybe good Oscar bait.

So, you go for it. Why not.

They’re looking for someone short and fat and frumpy. They don’t ever say that last part, but that’s what they really want. A hard-working, homely black woman of the Jim Crow era who has no beauty in her life.

Teresa is her name and her one dream, in this period piece set in 1954, is to attend college. Teresa is “past her prime”. She’s supposed to be in her late thirties. She’s supposed to be “finished”. She works as a housekeeper and has two kids of her own who she often leaves with her elderly mother. Her husband is a gentle man, but he can’t hold down a job because he keeps trying to unionize the workers. The bare script you’re given doesn’t offer more details there. It’s clear that Teresa can’t afford to go to college and she wouldn’t be admitted, anyway.

You ask them why she wouldn’t be admitted and the casting director looks at you like you’re pulling her leg. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Many colleges denied black women entrance, “back then”. _But many others didn’t_ , you want to say. It’s 1954, not 1854.

Still, you keep quiet because you understand that’s not the point. You understand that the point is to highlight the lack of opportunities.

And you’re suddenly nervous. Teresa seems like a big part, an _Oscar_ -worthy part. It sounds like the story is about her, clumsy though it might be.

You go home after that first audition with a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach; not excitement, but dread. This could be something.

You hope they call you back, and you don’t.

When they do, when that phone call actually comes, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You stumble around the house like a zombie. You don’t want to tell too many people, for fear of jinxing it. But you buy two bottles of wine and you and Bea, your roommate, get very drunk and pass out on the floor together. On the brink of consciousness, the ceiling seems to open wide and a great white light envelops you, cold and harsh, bleaching your skin, turning you inside out. You wake up with a jolt.

You thought this was Teresa’s story, but it isn’t.

At the second reading, they tell you a little more about the project. And they have you read lines with a young woman, white and pretty, a stand-in for the protagonist. They haven’t yet cast the “main actress”.

“Oh,” you say.

You see, Teresa really wants to go to college, but she can’t. Luckily for her, she befriends a young white woman who happens to be the daughter of Teresa’s employer. This young white woman enrolls in that college for Teresa and attends in her name. At night, they swap textbooks and class notes, and during the day, Teresa does her hair. Towards the end of the third act, however, the jig is up, people find out Annie – the white girl – has been doing this for Teresa and she gets in major trouble. She’s expelled from the reputable institution and her mother fires Teresa. Luckily for Teresa, _again_ , the students on campus are inspired and touched by Annie’s story. There’s a big, historic march in town and the college is forced to overturn their racist policies. At the end of the movie, Annie and Teresa’s husband and her little kids watch “Mama T” walk down the campus lane to the main building with a little briefcase in her hand. She’s wearing a prim new suit and a hesitant smile on her lips. She’s finally going to college.

You exhale softly as you turn to the last page. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Your first unfortunate instinct is to laugh. _Mama T._ Holy fuck.

But you look up and you see that the white girl who is reading lines with you has genuine tears in her eyes.

“That’s so beautiful, don’t you think?” she asks throatily.

You nod, giving her a hesitant smile.

And wouldn’t you know it? It’s just the kind of smile Teresa would give.

You have lunch with Lana, an old friend from Black Rabbit. You remember when, fresh out of drama school, you did that burlesque number together, a strange, psychedelic pastiche of Greek myths and, somehow, stupidly, the Bosnian war. You thought you were so clever, but you were just very young. When Hadestown came out you both said that you’d had the idea first, in a way.

Now she’s trying to talk some sense into you.

“Hold up. You’re thinking of turning this _down_? Are you serious?”

“I just don’t feel comfortable with the story –”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up. Who cares if it’s some white savior nonsense? You’re making bank! And getting recognition. This is a stepping stone, hon, not your calling card.”

You like that. Stepping stone, not calling card.

“Besides, didn’t they just cast that Lily Lawrence chick as the white girl? I know she’s big.”

“Lily James,” you correct with a smile.

“Yeah, whatever. Let her spotlight shine on you. Hell, if they’re using us, why not use them?”

A few articles about you pop up online. It’s a very novel experience. They don’t write a whole profile or anything, but they introduce you as a newcomer and part of a star-studded cast. It’s that big cast that’s the main focus and you’re perfectly happy with that. Then one afternoon, Google Alert tells you that Chris Evans has been cast as Lily James’ love interest and the provost’s son who organizes the marches and participates in the riots. _Oh shit_ , you think. _This really is going to be big._

And yeah – it doesn’t take long for your phone to get _flooded_ with incoming messages and calls from old classmates and teachers and distant relatives and total unknowns who are suddenly _very_ interested in your career. You get texts from old girlfriends _and_ boyfriends telling you to “take one for the team” and get down with Captain America. They send you pics of him in sexy photo shoots when he was younger and then more tasteful, cuddly pics of him and various dogs. He likes dogs a lot, apparently. Lana bombards you with detailed descriptions of what exactly you can do with his “shield”. It’s…a lot. You didn’t know the Chris Evans thirst was this rampant. To you, he’s one of those Avengers guys, pretty to look at, but kind of boring? Yeah, he was good in _Snowpiercer_ , and you vaguely remember him from a few other indies, but frankly, he never made a big impression on you.

So, he’s probably perfect for this part.

Your roommate says she “hates” you. She says it’s not fair that you get to share the same breathing air with someone so “beautiful”. She doesn’t even objectify him. She says “beautiful”, which is a little disturbing. You laugh and she gets offended. How can you _not_ get weak at the knees at the thought of Chris Evans?

You want to say that the name doesn’t help. It reminds you of the knock-off brand of detergent your mom used when she ran out. The associations are anything but sexy.

But – to be fair – when you lie down in bed at night and scroll through photos of him (especially the bearded ones) you can’t help feeling a tiny bit excited.

Not that – and you snort – it’s remotely in the realm of possibility.

Sure, it’s fun to make outlandish jokes in the group chat with your friends, but no one actually expects you to catch his eye. Let’s leave aside the fact that you’re “not his type”. You don’t even live in the same galaxy. And you’re absolutely fine with that.

Besides, you’re looking particularly…sad today. You examine yourself in the mirror. The gray cowl-like woolen dress makes you look like a puffy ball of lead. Your hair has been flattened and fried. You’ve been given minimal make-up, all of it enhancing your sunken eyes because you’ll be doing quite a bit of crying in the scenes coming up.

The door slides open and Lily walks in wearing a lovely green summer dress whose folds create a kind of halo around her. She turns on the spot and gives you a big, toothy smile and then she’s hugging you, bending down to you, and you can smell the freesias in her perfume.

“This is such an important story. I’m so excited and honored to tell it. I hope you’ll tell me whenever I get something wrong,” she says breathily. You stare at her thin, glossy lips. She means well.

“I’m sure you’ll be great. Plus, we have actual historian consultants on set, so…” you trail off, rearranging the sharp pin next to your ear. You’re pretty sure it will leave a scar. 

“Oh, of course, but you know, it’s a different thing to actually live it. I can’t imagine.”

You really want to change the topic.

“So, uhh, what’s it like to hang out with Colin Firth on a boat?” 

The question catches her off-guard. Perhaps she was hoping for more words of wisdom. Perhaps she thought you were a lot older. This outfit sure makes you look fifty. But she’s very happy to talk about _Mamma Mia!_ until the break is over.

You lean against a fake old-timey lamppost to adjust the damn straps on these sandals. God, where the hell did they get these Amish-looking clogs? You can’t wait to stick your feet in buckets of ice at the end of the day. 

If only you could keep vertical, that’d be great. You really don’t want to fall on your ass like this.

“Oh hey, you all right?”

Someone’s hand steadies your back.

“Yeah, I’m – trying –”

And then you sort of trail off as you see him standing in front of you in his 50s suit and tie. Clean-shaven.

Eh, you preferred the beard.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly.

“Hi. You’re not wearing your glasses.”

You lift your hand to your eyes. Right. You were wearing them at the table read. You didn’t really get to talk to him beyond polite hellos, but it’s not like you wanted to, because fine, you can admit you feel slightly intimidated. You can’t tell if he’s taller in real life, or you’re just that shorter.

But you do find your voice, eventually.

“That’s not why I’m struggling. It’s these shoes.”

“Oh, I wasn’t –” He chuckles, pauses a moment. “I just remembered you were really focused on the script. We didn’t get to talk. I’m Chris,” he says, extending his hand.

You take his hand carefully and say your full name, as if this were a job interview. _Dumbass_ , you think.

He says he’s delighted to meet you and he does that crinkly thing with his eyes which indicates honesty. But you’re all actors and faking enthusiasm is your job.

“Didn’t expect the voice, though,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“Your voice. It’s more high-pitched.”

You frown. What, you can’t have a girlish voice because you’re an oppressed mother of two?

You crane your neck. 

“How about now?” you say, husky and low and alien to yourself, but just right for Teresa.

He pretends to shudder. “Spooky.”

“You should hear my moose call.”

You don’t know why you said that. It’s not even a joke.

But he laughs, to be polite.

In the scene you’re filming, he’s supposed to run into you on the street and help you carry the groceries home, even though “Mrs. Driscoll”, your employer, would not be happy with this kind of courtesy. And in fact, most people on the street don’t see the point of this pretty white boy helping Teresa with her measly bags.

You’re supposed to make some kind of light conversation, but it sounds really depressing because Andrew – that’s his character in the movie – wants to know if your husband wants a job, and Teresa is too proud to ask. And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you don’t act circles around it.

But fuck it hard.

On top of that, the clogs are killing you. You keep hobbling on your feet, which you suppose adds to the melodrama.

There’s even a line in the script.

“How are your feet, Teresa?” Chris asks.

A script supervisor shouts, “ _Mama T_! He only calls her Teresa at the end of the movie!” It’s supposed to be symbolic. 

He nods, goes back a moment.

“How are your feet, Mama T?”

He looks down at your sandals and winks at you when the camera is on your face, like it’s a private joke. You sneak a smile when the camera is on his face.

You’re not a method actor. Never have been. Real, mature acting, as you’ve embraced it, demands entering various moments of humanness and leaving something behind. But you’re not supposed to stay.

You remember your teachers giving you that lovely metaphor of the sparrow from the religious writings of the Venerable Bede. Yeah, that roaring bestseller. Life on earth, he says, is like the flight of a sparrow through a bright and cozy mead-hall, “passing from winter to winter again”. You are the sparrow, flying the length of the mead-hall. That is how much you must leave behind.

The flight.

This is a crying scene, so you fly inside the mead-hall and look at the thanes and the aldermen sharing a drink before the hearth.

You raise your eyes to the small cross on the wall. Much like her namesake, Teresa loves God. She wants a miracle.

When the director yells cut, you fly out of the mead-hall.

The tears do not dry on your cheeks, but you look like you’ve never cried in your life.

You scroll through your phone. You munch on some cashews. You laugh.

When it’s time to go back to the crying scene, you simply unfurl your wings and shake the snow off, letting it melt until it glides down your cheeks.

There is something uncanny about that.

“That’s really neat that you can switch back and forth like that…on a dime,” Chris tells you during a coffee break. “It takes me a long time to get my head in the game, sometimes.”

You’re not good with compliments, especially about acting, so you just sort of shake your head, like you’re denying all responsibility.

“Silver lining is,” you say at length, “I don’t have to insert those menthol sticks that make you cry on cue.”

“They sound painful.”

“You’ve never had those?” you ask.

“They mostly just give me Aquaphor if I really need it.”

And maybe it’s because you’re having this companionable conversation and you’re not feeling that nervous anymore, but you’re kind of curious if he can do it. Cry on command without any help.

Chris shakes his head and smiles. “I’d need – I’d need some privacy. We’d need to go somewhere.”

You raise your eyebrows. _Go somewhere?_ “The whole point is to do it in front of other people.”

And you realize you sound obnoxious, so you quickly add, “I didn’t mean it like that. I get that it’s difficult. But it’s actually easier to cry in front of others.”

He frowns. “That’s not right – is it?”

“I’m talking about instant crying. We break a lot easier with others around, especially when they apply pressure.”

“Huh. Drama school sounds like it was fun,” he quips.

You smile. “Oh yeah. A barrel of laughs.”

You’re having a drink with your movie “husband” and a few others from the cast and you’re basically shitting all over the whole production in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an “opportunity” this is, when Chris walks into the bar and spots your table and waves at the whole gang. The mood quickly dampens. A few people walk off to separate tables. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Chris slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Sam, the actor who plays your husband. He’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and flannel shirt, but chances are he’ll still be recognized, and photos of him with you will show up on some gossip site. You feel anxious about that. It feels weird to talk to him so casually. You all start chatting about various future projects you’re considering and your theater work comes up. Chris asks you if you’ve got any upcoming performances.

You beat around the bush. “A couple of things. Nothing big.” 

“Come on, don’t be modest. Name two.”

You inhale. You don’t like being put on the spot. Plus, you’re not wearing your Teresa clothes anymore and you feel a little self-conscious in your actual curve-hugging sweater and jeans.

“ _The Bald Soprano_ ,” you say, at length.

“That the one with the Mafia?”

You laugh. “Worse. Ionesco. Absurdist theater.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

The way he says it, it sounds like he hasn’t, though you know he’s also teasing you. He asks you to tell him about it.

“Ionesco wrote it as a joke about the time he was trying to learn English. You know how, when you learn a foreign language they give you those really bizarre set sentences that you have to memorize? That’s the whole play. It makes English feel weird, which… it pretty much is. Imagine saying, “I'm looking for a monophysite priest to marry our maid” ten times faster.”

He laughs, hand on his chest. “That sounds incredible.”

“Not when you have to memorize a bunch of gibberish.”

“Hey, give me gibberish any day over – well.”

He doesn’t say it, but you’re all thinking it. Poor Mama T.

“And the second thing?” he prods.

“Uhhh, _Fat Pig_.”

“What?”

“ _Fat Pig_.”

“Yeah, I…what is that?”

“It’s a play by Neil Labute. I’ll be playing the fat pig. Well, not a literal pig. Just a fat woman who gets dumped by her boyfriend because he’s embarrassed to be seen with her. We’re trying to add race in the mix. Should be fun.”

You were trying to be tongue-in-cheek about it, but you notice his discomfort levels are off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, thirty-something years of being in this world have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours.

“Hey, I said it should be fun.”

“Yeah, uhh, I’m just not a big theater guy. I should give it a try, but I’m terrified I won’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. It’s theater that has to get _you_ ,” you say, pointing at him with a fry. “I mean, _we_ are the most complicated machinery on that stage. But don’t quote me on that. Because I’m sure I heard it from one of my teachers.”

He nods. You don’t like the way he’s looking at you, like you’re some kind of colorful textbook.

Sam nudges you playfully. “My God woman, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation thankfully turns to more enjoyable topics, like the fact that Chris has always been into musical theater more than “serious” theater, actually, and he took a few classes at the Lee Strasberg Institute in New York when he was in high school, though not much came of it. Soon enough, you manage to put aside your discomfort, but at the end of the night, he asks for your private number because he’d like to run a couple of things by you.

And what are you gonna say? No?

_You probably think I’m an idiot_ , he texts you later that night when you’re already in bed.

Okay. There are several ways you can approach this. A. You can ignore it and chalk it up to him being tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. B. You can assure him that he’s a very legit actor with a lot of credits to his name. C. You can flirt.

You immediately text Lana to ask her which of the three you should go for.

HE’S TEXTING U??? AT 1 AM??? BITCH SKIP THE FLIRTING GO STRAIGHT TO CLITTING 

You’re not super sure what “clitting” means, but it doesn’t seem feasible. 

You decide to play it cool.

 _Define idiot,_ you text back.

_Webster Dictionary defines it as Christopher Robert Evans. There’s even a lil picture of me next to it._

_Your full name is Christopher Robert Evans? Tough._

_Like you didn’t already look me up._

You blink. Whoa, okay. Cocky much?

 _Not a humble idiot, I see,_ you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. Maybe it’s the thought that he’ll forget about it in the morning. 

_Srsly you’re so cool. How are you so cool?_

_I’m really not._

_You really are._

_Stop it or I’ll start believing you._

And the absolute fool pastes a Naruto gif screaming “Believe it!”

_GTFO_

He sends several laughing emojis. _Don’t act like you don’t know what that’s from._

_Sir…I will not respond to such slander._

You send the “I pretend I do not see it” emoji. It’s all extra-corny and childish and you’d honestly rather be sexting at this point. It’d be less painful.

He floods your phone with more gifs and reaction pics, among them the infamous one of him with bonnet and long nails and the whole thing is so hilarious and surreal that twenty minutes later you are forced to type, _U know what? Yes, you are an idiot._

And it comes full circle.

Of course, it feels weird on set after that, like you slipped into this easy camaraderie, but you can’t acknowledge it. You have to remind yourself this is just this one movie, and you’re not really friends, and it doesn’t work like that.

And then there’s that ballroom dance scene. Lily James is dancing with this college boy who thinks that black folks should be “grateful” for everything that’s being done for them. Chris cuts in around this point and saves her from Mini-KKK who’s also got two left feet. The lights dim as Chris and Lily share a dance and the music slows down.

You sit off-camera and yawn in your first. You’re also chewing gum. You like blowing big bubbles and then popping them with your nail. It’s something to do.

You have to be ready for your cue. You’re supposed to interrupt this idyllic moment, barging on the dance floor to tell “Miss Anne” that your husband has just been locked up.

Lily whispers something in Chris’ ear. They part slightly and appraise each other with that mystically lustful gaze that these movies have turned into precise science.

You blow a bubble and pop it with your nail.

Chris’ eyes dart towards you, then back to Lily, and then he lowers his head with a smile, hiding a laugh.

“Okay, back from the top!” the director yells.

“You did that on purpose,” he tells you afterwards, catching you in the hallway.

“Did what?”

“You know what. I’m going to have to plan my revenge.”

“Not much of a plan if you’re already telling me about it.”

He snorts, a fond smile playing on his lips. He takes a step forward and you take a step back. It has come to your attention that this hallway is currently empty and there’s a wall behind you. Uh-oh.

“I don’t know, I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he says, all cute and flirty, and you wish you weren’t wearing the gray cowl.

And surely – there is no way that he is leaning down for – that would be absurd – yeah, _no_.

Fortunately (depending on your perspective), a few PAs come out of an editing booth and Chris moves aside to let them pass.

You do wonder what he would’ve done.

Well, he gets his revenge, in a way.

 _This you?_ he texts you one afternoon and the image he attaches makes you fall off your chair.

The pic is blurry, circa 2007 quality, but it can’t be mistaken for anything else.

There’s you, in full burlesque regalia, boa feathers and everything, a cannonball between your bare thighs, because you’re supposed to represent Nemesis, goddess of retribution and _God_ , why don’t people _stop_ twenty-two year-olds before they do shit like this?

Somehow, _somehow_ – he has managed to find that show you and Lana did back in the mid-2000s about Greek gods and the Bosnian war. Someone apparently “leaked” it online, since you’re no longer a nobody. You suspect it was Lana, though she swears otherwise. 

For a couple of hours, you’re just paralyzed with fear and shame and a weird mix of pride and resentment. You don’t really regret that performance, but you wish he hadn’t seen it. It’s too personal. There’s so much you’re revealing, _literally_.

When he sees you’ve given him no response he calls you. He calls you until you pick up.

“Hey, uhh…I hope I didn’t upset you.”

You remain cautiously silent.

“I was only trying to be funny. I should have learned by now that I’m not. I just wanted to say… you look fucking amazing. And your show was great. Everyone can see that.” 

You swallow the dryness in your throat. “Everyone? Please no.”

“I know it can be terrifying to put yourself out there like that, but this is genuinely brilliant. And you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

“Pretty hot and stuff?” you echo, rolling your eyes.

“I – honestly, I can’t stop watching it,” he says, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing.

It’s not a joke, you realize.

“Really?”

His voice drops an octave. “Really.”

_Fuck._

You feel his eyes on you, not on Teresa. It’s almost like he’s undressing you, trying to see the dancer underneath.

That’s bad.

Because this is supposed to be the kitchen scene. Domestic and sexless. “Andrew” has come to “Mama T” to ask for advice on how to woo Annie. It’s Annie he should be undressing with his eyes.

But the way he’s staring at you, it’s –

You tug at your collar. 

“Do you think she likes me, Teresa?” he rasps.

Someone whispers to him that he forgot to say “Mama T”.

His hand on the table almost touches yours.

The director yells “cut” and walks up to you. He stands between you and him.

“Chris, you’re not making love to Teresa. Redirect your attention.”

And the total shit looks at you when he says “Sorry about that”.

Here’s the thing. You get it. He has that kind of lean-faced intensity when he wants to. It can be wholesome, but it can also be weirdly arrogant, like he knows you’re thinking what he’s thinking, and it makes you squirm a little. He knows he’s good-looking, but he also knows he’s got a little something extra. So, you admit he can be compelling. His filmography is more varied than just Marvel, and you know that too. It’s just that it’s easier to see him as boring, dreamy male lead. 

To even things out, he shows you that trashy scene from _Not Another Teen Movie_ , where he’s got a banana split coming out of his bare ass and there’s whipped cream over – well, everything.

“See, this is actual, life-long embarrassment. Your burlesque show? Something you will remember fondly. This shit? Will haunt me to my dying day.”

You laugh and lean back against the couch. “I mean, it’s satire, right? That’s not so bad.”

“There’s such a thing as bad satire,” he points out. Then he also leans back and rests his arm on the back of the couch. You’re aware of the proximity that elicits.

You’re currently in his trailer which is probably not a good idea, but it’s almost the end of the shoot and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

And you even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss ‘Mama T’, phony, Civil Rights warts and all.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

And yep – this time he is _definitely_ leaning in for a kiss, it can’t be anything else, and it’s too _sudden_ and you’re not ready, so you slide off the couch.

Just like that.

You slide to the floor. Like some kind of doormat marmalade.

Chris stares at you in total confusion.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“Oh, it’s this thing we did in drama school,” you say quickly. “We used to have “arguments” with the floor.”

He barks a laugh. “ _What_?”

“It was one of those stupid think-piece exercises. We were supposed to interact with the floor. But we always lost, because you know, a floor can’t respond. But the instructor wanted the floor to _have_ a reaction.”

He blinks. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, we were supposed to reach that insane level of persuasion. We had to give the impression the floor was alive.”

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Oh, uh, everyone had their method. One guy tried to pull out his teeth using the floor. Dentist Floor, you know. I made like a plank.”

“You…”

“I just lay down on the floor and sat very still, like this. But from time to time I’d roll my eyes, like the floor had told me something really obvious and annoying, just to faze me. In my scenario, the floor _wanted_ me to fail and well, you can’t prove it didn’t. But I had to time the eye rolls just right. I did get a B+, actually.”

Chris leans forward.

“You’re fucking with me. That can’t be true.”

You take pleasure in the mystery.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“You’re …the weirdest person I’ve met.”

“Actors, am I right?”

And you stare at each other for an uncomfortable amount of seconds. Like, really, when will he stop?

And then his face sort of…crumples. It sprouts ridges and craters. It shifts into a subtle, pervasive mask of grief. He blinks, once, twice. Slowly, the tears come. He holds his hands up to his face, wipes the wetness, and that only makes the tears come faster. He sniffs.

You open your mouth and leave it open, not knowing what to do.

“See, I told you I could cry on cue if we went somewhere private.”

You shriek and kick his leg. “You piece of shit!”

He grabs your foot and tugs you towards him, but you try to wriggle out of his grasp. So, he crawls down to you.

Suddenly, he’s got you pinned to the floor and there’s nowhere else to go.

Yeah, maybe some people’s fantasies about him went like this, but to you this moment is eminently weird and also weirdly touching.

His half-fake, half-genuine tears fall down your cheeks and you open your mouth to say something clever, but he thinks that’s his cue. He can do other things on cue, you see.

He kisses you and there’s a strange sound, like air snapping after thunder, because he’s so eager and the sound is so loud and every little nerve bud is enhanced by it. You lean into the kiss tentatively, and, before you know it, his hands are _everywhere_. It seems he was just waiting for your permission because he’s squeezing every curve he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy. And you’re a little overwhelmed.

“Mmm…slow down?” you say between kisses, even though your own hands have started exploring.

“We have a scene in like, half an hour, I can’t pause or slow down,” he says in his most Bostonian fashion. Like a traveling salesman who needs you to look at this vacuum and do it quickly. It’s pretty hot. And you’re definitely worried about that half an hour, but you let him pull off your sweater because you now have vacuum brain. It’s a thing.

And then his speech turns a little garbled as he cups your breasts over the bra.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since watching that video of you putting that cannonball between your thighs.

Can he be your cannonball? You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse and you forget all about Nemesis and war and being young.

He’s deft, but also clunky, maybe because he’s twice your size and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body, but you don’t mind. This disorganized lust, it suits you both.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his cock strains to get inside you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance, but – there’s only half an hour, or less.

He watches your face intently. You’re a consummate actress. You fly into the mead-hall.

But you stay there for a while.

“Fuck – please –”

He loves the sound of your voice when it doesn’t belong to you anymore.

You think it’s going to be a nightmare to go back to the tear-jerker scene where Chris and Annie give Teresa her college admission forms. But you land it without a hitch and he does so too. Almost like there’s a post-coital glow, peaceful and subdued, like the simmering pot is off the stove.

And you’re almost a little disappointed. Was that it?

Is that all it was? Pent-up sexual energy, finally released?

Well, maybe it’s still pent-up, because a few minutes later he’s pulling you into a supply closet and sticking his tongue down your throat in a really ugly, satisfying way.

You lie in an actual bed next to him a few nights later and reflect on the messy chain of events that led you here. Nope, still doesn’t make much sense. But the ceiling doesn’t open up, and there’s no white light stripping you bare, and you breathe easier, for now.

You still watch the shadows from the corner of your eye.

You can’t believe you’re here with him. Earlier you ordered pizza and had a night in, but he wants to take you out to dinner, which feels a little excessive. He’s still him, and you’re still you, and you’re the kind of people who don’t date, not even a little. It’s bad publicity, all around.

“Stop that,” he mutters in his pillow.

“Huh?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Thinking out loud,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You heave a sigh. “Look, obviously, this is a sex thing.”

He lifts his head from the pillow. “Oh my God.” He laughs. “That’s so insulting. For both of us.”

“But you can’t actually see more in it.”

“You’re really bad at bedroom talk.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too.”

“Chris.”

“Yes, the sex has been great. Why do you think the other parts won’t be?”

“Because we’re very different.”

“Most people are different and they still function well together.”

 _Together_. How weird.

“Why are you so hell-bent on dating me?” you ask, almost resentful.

He traces his thumb from your forehead, to your mouth, down your chin. “Because I really like you. Isn’t that enough?”

You huff. No, it’s not. Somehow, you need more than naïve sincerity.

So he goes, “What did that Ionesco guy say? “Life is very simple, really. Go on and kiss each other”.”

Your eyes widen like saucers.

“You _read_ the play?”

“I…looked up quotes from it.”

You laugh.

He delivered that with such effortless candor that you have to give him props. He’s sold you on it. You believe him.

You kiss him on the lips, lingering.

“Who are you texting?” he asks when you reach for your phone.

“Lana. _She_ won’t believe any of this.”

You don’t go public at the movie premiere because neither of you wants to associate _that_ particular project with your budding relationship. The movie gets pretty lukewarm reviews. You can’t help but find it a little funny that one major complaint is that Evans and James have little to no chemistry. Your performance is well-regarded. They say you’ve “elevated” the role.

But you’re ready to go back to theater for now. You had your break, now you need a break from it.

He comes to see you perform at the Odyssey Playhouse.

_Fat Pig._ Crowd pleaser, all around.

He makes a show of bringing you flowers backstage, and for a moment the cameras don’t believe it. You’re still wearing the mustard-stained dress your character dons at the end of the play. You wear it proudly.

It just doesn’t fit. Chris Evans is dating _her_?

He bends down and kisses you, and pushes your dressing room door firmly shut. 


End file.
